


Admirable Deceit

by Cinnamaldeide



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 50 Shades of Grey References, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beta Read, Cashier Will, Customer Hannibal, Cute as in murderous but lovingly, Dark Will Graham, Don’t copy to another site, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 01:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide
Summary: There was indeed no doubt about Hannibal being an acclaimed artist. His mere flaw was having lost inspiration along the way. He’d been however fortunate enough to meet a flippant cashier at the hardware store around the corner.Written for our Hannigraham Meet-Cute challenge





	Admirable Deceit

**Author's Note:**

> FhimeChan and killers_on_mondays were kind enough to read and correct many of the mistakes you’re thankfully not reading, but all the remaining ones are of course my own fault. Try to bear with them and enjoy my attempt at meet-cute ([prompt #13](http://meetcuteprompts.tumblr.com/post/99681445062/)). And thank my wonderful betas ;)

  
[Photoset on Tumblr](https://cinnamaldeide.tumblr.com/post/184088728969/)

 

The fine line between ‘amateurish’ and ‘professional’ wasn’t Hannibal’s to draw in regards to his own creations. It pleased him unspeakably to be considered an artist both for his musical  _ and  _ for his murderous compositions.

The American audience had proved singularly receptive of his sophisticated arrangements, were they gruesome tableaux or convoluted sonatas. Much to Hannibal’s gleeful delight, a column was often spared in specialized magazines or prominent journals for his efforts.

The attention had been flattering, even inspiring. Until it ceased to affect Hannibal altogether.

Despite the source of his meat and the light touch on his harpsichord, he gained little satisfaction from his own elaborated performances, found scarce appreciation from his enchanted admirers or morbid fans. Ultimately uninspired to improve himself, Hannibal was reluctantly contemplating to retire.

“Tough decision,” Hannibal commented upon questioning, before disappearing from the scene, “I hope it is for the best.” His contrition was sincere, his auspices not particularly. Hannibal was abandoning his career as others would a heavy burden: without looking back.

 

 

It had been the proverbial light bulb. A sudden realisation turning everything brighter, clearer.

Technically, Hannibal was holding a less metaphorical light bulb in hand, frowning at the plastic envelope while waiting in line to pay for his purchase. A minor repair needed to be performed in his kitchen.

“It’s the lack of recognition that kills the artist,” Hannibal accidentally overheard. “Everyone wants to be  _ seen _ .” The comment made quite an impression on him for some reason. In its simplicity, it left Hannibal speechless.

“It’s not enough to know you were able to achieve your intentions,” the voice continued, allowing Hannibal to trace its source behind the counter. “You need everybody else to understand it was your doing,” the cashier sentenced.

Before his turn approached, Hannibal admired the unassuming man. Shoulders dropped under a flannel shirt in dull colours, calloused hands with dirt still stuck under his fingernails, eyes lowered and hidden behind an unfashionable frame, dark hair covering their intelligence and light fur adorning his bland attire. Hannibal was transfixed, and remained so even once he stood in front of him.

Which in retrospect didn’t provide for the most propitious conversation starter. “Are you really using a credit card to pay for  _ that _ ?”

 

 

With its discolored sign and unattractive entrance, ‘Graham & Son’ was a modest hardware store rather conveniently close to Hannibal’s office, the kind which would seldom attract attention or keep it for longer than strictly necessary to acquire practical utensils and forget about it.

Hannibal generally avoided handling broken electrical outlets and faulty wires, preferred instead to devote manual labour to nobler purposes, but he started frequenting the inconspicuous shop of his own accord of late. Cable ties, masking tape, coveralls, Hannibal came to appreciate the unembellished atmosphere, fascinating in its utilitarian way.

He also enjoyed repeatedly questioning the reserved, sometimes abrasive manager. “Would you suggest synthetic or natural filament ropes, Mr Graham?”

“Just Will,” his attendant corrected, presumably uncomfortable about the honorific. “What do you need it for?”

“Renovations.”

“Of course.” Graham eyed him from head to toe, sceptical, then extracted a switchblade from his pocket and reached for a brown, thick cord. “How much?”

“Five yards, please,” Hannibal requested. He’d been entertaining the idea of binding him with his own goods, testing the merchandise on his own skin, as it wetted with his warm blood. The blithe thought came unwarrantedly and unexpectedly, perhaps summoned by the casual irreverence.

Will Graham seemed to share his private delight. “Enjoy your renovations, sir.”

 

 

Dispassionately practicing theremin and piano to maintain his skills, Hannibal surprised himself contemplating with interest various scenarios involving Will Graham’s bold attitude. Hannibal’s hands would move more fervently, more satisfyingly, find their own aimless way towards a suave composition in sweet bliss, as his imagination supplied gruesome displays and elaborate recipes.

Hannibal wondered about Will’s faint accent. He speculated about his pastimes, his most intimate connections, sentimental or otherwise. It felt a bit like flirting, a bit like playing with his food.

“Charmed to see you here again,” Will began to greet him with sarcasm, overly familiar. Hannibal could tell he found him a burdensome customer. It never deterred him.

“Good morning, Will,” he would return, list of specialized items in hand. Approaching him, Will would visibly steel himself for an intense session of explanations, which inspired in Hannibal a certain vicious pleasure for some reason. It became a familiar occurrence.

“You must really like this shop,” Hannibal noted after several visits, while Will placed his purchase in a paper bag. “It belonged to your father, I assume.”

“Pays the bills,” Will answered. “We came here penniless and invested what little money we had in the shop instead of food and hot water, ended up selling what we used for the repairs instead of doing it ourselves.”

Hannibal beamed at that. “And do you still busy yourself with small chores?”

“I do repair motor boats,” Will confided, “not much else.” The smooth tone he’d adopted held an odd inflection.

 

 

After an insipid interview about the eighth girl abducted by the infamous Shrike, who had been monopolizing the scene with his kidnappings, Hannibal realized with dismay his fearful shadow had been replaced, his artful slaughters and dark taunts belonged in FBI manuals and lectures.

“The Ripper is not motivated lately,” Will commented, newspaper article carelessly posed on the counter, store strangely devoid of clients. “I guess that’s comforting.” He didn’t sound particularly comforted though.

“God forbid the circumstances change,” Hannibal countered, sour in his implicit complaint. “Never underestimate the power push given by encouraging words.” Hannibal searched his bright eyes. “As you said, everyone craves acceptance and recognition.”

Instead of further lowering his gaze and feigning a lapse of memory, Will met his challenging stare. “Mr Hobbs is a regular,” he sentenced, protracting himself forward, elbows on his bench. “His only daughter is abandoning the nest, he needed some sympathy. He’s a caring man, even if a bit suffocating sometimes,” Will admitted, deliberately returning to his idle reading.

Hannibal could feel his cloying indecision like nylon on his skin. Will seemed undecided about the amount of disdain to reserve for such behavior, as if Will knew his words to be double-edged. “Mr Hobbs is a doting father and I’m sorry he’s feeling so anxious about his situation, but this,” Will indicated the wrinkled pages under his palm, “I just can’t condone. Too many young girls missing for a psychopath that doesn’t even share the final work.” A spark of delight glimmered behind his thin glasses.

Hannibal believed it would seem unduly suspect to request more rope after such a conversation. He wanted to dispel whatsoever lingering doubts all the same.

“Far be it from me to inspire some serial killer,” Will teased with an inviting smile on his lips.

 

 

It took Hannibal an embarrassingly long time to realize Will’s occupation was disproportionately convenient for artists of his own kind. A workplace filled with dangerous devices, potentially lethal if improperly employed. Mortal weapons in the right hands, which would then deceive each client asking for the same equipment.

It took him considerably less to locate Hobbs’ cabin and reshape it to his own liking, arranging its owner as part of the furniture alongside his own victims. Hannibal hadn’t expected taking indirect commissions would reveal as satisfying, nor to gain so much notoriety so fast.

“Charming as ever to see you,” Will warmly welcomed him the day after his bloody composition had been found. Newspaper on the counter, glasses gently lying on top of its crisp papers. “You happen to need more rope?” Will teased, ostensibly heedless of having rescued the Chesapeake Ripper from his creative sterility.

“Not at the moment, thank you,” Hannibal responded. “Renovations are proceeding rather fast, contrary to my expectations. Courtesy of your expertise, dear Will,” Hannibal chimed. His praise was accepted with meek mirth. “In fact, I feel compelled to reciprocate by inviting you to dinner.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you spotted references to 50 Shades, that’s because my vocabulary is seriously lacking when it comes to do-it-yourself stuff, which is admittedly the only vaguely ambiguous part of that book.  
> Find me [on Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/586855) and [on Tumblr](https://cinnamaldeide.tumblr.com/post/184088728969/).


End file.
